I must have been about four when Grandma Lupe died. What was she? 103? 130? To the four year old mind those numbers are interchangeable. What I remember is that she was old, tiny, in a wheelchair, and her hands were soft and blue. Her skin was loose and cool to the touch.
By the time I was five my best friend in the world died. I didn’t know BeeBee was Jewish when we were playing on Augusta. It wasn’t til he died and I saw him with that funny hat in his casket. I thought I was Jewish, too. He was my best friend so, obviously we were the same. I wanted a hat to match his. I don’t remember when I learned it was actually called a yarmulke. He looked like a beautiful porcelain doll. I was too afraid to touch him because I was convinced I would break him.
And, of course, we shared a brick wall with a cemetery in those days.
Death was so much with us.
So were ghosts.
I had an asthma attack and you rushed me to the hospital. Once the doctors took care of me and sent us on our way I was surprised to see BeeBee on the elevator. I thought it was funny that I could see him and you couldn’t. The elevator still had a seat from the old timey days when it had an operator and I had to stop you from sitting on BeeBee’s lap.
There was a lot of death between Grandma Lupe’s time and yours. Gangs, drugs, old age, suicide, accidents, AIDS, and even malaria.
So much death in one lifetime.
You would think it would make me angry, or cynical.
I was angry for a time. When you died. We both know you didn’t have to go. You should be here to see your gaggle of nieces and nephews. You should be here to meet your son and daughters-in-law. We won’t ever know if you drove your motorcycle into that wall on purpose or because you were drunk. We do know that you got drunk on purpose, so…
The anger of you leaving when and how you did subsided long ago. It was easy to process once I accepted that you have so many of the same demons in your head that I have in mine. You have the same doubts and self-loathing that comes of being unwanted by the person who should love you by default.
In your case it was your father.
Where I chose not to have children in part out of fear of becoming my mother, you had me in spite of having one of the worst fathers in recorded history. And you excelled beyond even the most lofty aspirations. All of your broken bits made you the perfect man to raise me with all of my sharp edges.
But that’s not what this letter is about.
Forgiving you for leaving us the way you did was difficult work, but easier to do than forgiving you for how you left one of my siblings believing it was his fault. ‘If’ is one hell of a burden for someone left behind.
IF I had gone with him to the bar…
IF I had called him back…
IF…
He’d still be here.
Watching my brother, C- carry that around with him for years was a little harder to get over. You did that to him. You put your son in a position to carry an unfair, overwhelming burden.
A good father doesn’t do that to his son. Not on purpose, at least.
So I had to convince myself that there was no way you rode into that wall intentionally, right?
Right?
My brother is okay now. Married to a feisty little thing he’s been in love with most of his life. Seeing him happy is one of the best things I have ever seen.
You really should be here for that.
